Monthly Archives: November 2006

Somebody sage me.

What I Did Today for a Living
by Blue Ox

Rich woman in Northwest Hills
Huge stone house on curving street,
Jags and Beemers and Saabs, oh my!
Door left open. Greeted by friendly
Flea-bitten dog
No people
And then it hits me
Stench of a thousand rotting things
Eau de cat piss
Reeking putrescence of damp used undies
The place is a fucking dump.
Laundry, clean, in hulking pile
On sticky dirt-brown floor
Crusted dishes, oh how they grin and chuckle
Never get me clean! Never!
Note on grimy food-hardened table:
“-fold laundry
-hang up the shirts in masters closet
-2 hrs only $50
-ps its a suprise party so it has to look good”
Not in my lifetime.
Leave leave leave leave leave leave leave
Oh God just turn around and go
Hang head, pick up mop
Toddler-mouth to feed at home.
Yes master, shirts in your closet.
And what else? I must guess
Batten down the hatches, boys
Gritting teeth, I slap on gloves
Breathing noxious cloud of mixed smells
Listening to big dog schlup-schlup-schlup
Behold! The Great Masturbating Labrador!
I must not barf I must not barf I must not barf!
And somehow I don’t
And in two hours
I have kicked this house’s ass.
“2 hrs only $50” worth of clean.
No money no people
I leave a note:
“I kicked your house’s ass
Send check in mail”
Leave leave leave leave leave leave leave
Open door step out close door behind
Drive 30 minutes home with aching head
Vowing escape
A better life
A better example for my kid
And then the phone call.
“I just got home and I’m really suprised you were here for two hours and didn’t do that much. Really, it’s like no one even cleaned.”
How many times
How many times
HOW MANY MORE TIMES will I have to say this?
“I’m sorry it wasn’t to your satisfaction

I still expect payment.”


a dream, and a story that needed to be told

I was going to get a dental checkup. I had Rocky with me. The “clinic” was outside, next to a hospital, right there on the dirt and weeds. There were dozens of people in line to get into the hospital. I went and sat down in the dentist’s chair and Rocky sat in my lap. A young doctor came and sat in the swivel chair and picked up my chart. He was in his early 30’s, with sharp dark features and a narrow face – not unlike Rocky’s cardiologist, but with a hint of East Indian in his face. We talked a little, and in the context of the conversation I told him that Rocky had Tetralogy of Fallot, a complicated heart defect. He did a subtle double-take, looked at my chart again, and realized he knew who she was. And he was on the cardio staff taking stock of her situation. His tone became cool and professional, matter-of-fact. He said, “We’ve discovered from her last echo that she has myopia [I know that’s a real thing, but of course it meant something different here]. It’s a hardening of the heart tissues. She’s going to need another surgery at some point, most likely fairly soon.”

I sat stunned. Everything, all the trauma that I’ve been putting away since finding out she won’t need another surgery, it all came rushing back into me like a breath from the dead. Fear – horrid, terrible dread, the kind that feels like a rat gnawing you from the inside. Rocky was playing in the dirt now a few feet away, and I watched her with tears welling up, and I told the doctor, “I was just starting to get used to her being ok, how free and wonderful that felt. I don’t want this feeling back. But I guess this is it, isn’t it? The way I’m going to feel from now on.”

The doctor looked at me askance, but I just sat there feeling it, sinking in a lake of fear, watching my beloved, happy daughter with the monster hiding inside the pitch black of her tiny body.

Melissa came to my side. I said, “I have to tell you something.” Her face became ashen. “It’s her heart,” she said. I explained it to her. She got angry, and her words were sharp and fast. I felt so badly for her. And I felt like a line had been cut between us.

I got up and wandered through the crowd, holding Rocky’s hand. A large, friendly-looking man said, “what’s she got?” and I said, “Tet, and myopia”. He said, “Wow. My son had Tet. I really hope you get the shot next time, that prevents myopia.” I stopped in my tracks, not quite believing what I was hearing. A shot? That would have prevented it? Why didn’t they tell us?

Then I couldn’t see her anymore. I beecame alarmed and turned in a circle, looking. The doctor had taken her away, kidnapped her, along with a group of other people from the hospital. They had taken her to do tests on her heart. I raced through the crowd and into the hospital door. I ran into a bathroom with stalls, and found her crouched in one, looking scared. She reached her arms out to me and I quickly scooped her up and cradled her head against my chest. I heard the door open. The young doctor and another doctor, a dark-haired woman, came in to find Rocky. My first impulse was to just run, but I caught myself, realizing that I would not be able to get past them unless I was smart. I couldn’t use my arms, because I had to hold Rocky. So I ran out and ran straight to the woman, right up close (the way my former boxing coach taught me), and I bashed her in the nose with my head. She crumpled, clutching her bloody face. I ran straight into the doctor and slammed my knee into his crotch. Then I ran as fast as I could, out of the hospital, into the trees beyond.

I was met in the woods by Melissa and three other people. They were our friends, and they led us to a wooden cabin on the outskirts of a small mill town. I slept curled around Rocky, Melissa curled around the other side of her, and we all took turns keeping watch through the night.

In another place, my younger brother was a beautiful, long-tailed bird. He was hurt and couldn’t fly. A gray government armored truck rolled up. It had a box-shaped machine on the front of it. The box opened like jaws, clamped down over my brother, and swallowed him. Then it drove away with him. He was special somehow; he had some sort of strange illness that they had created, and they had taken him to study him. I found a long feather, iridescent black, left in the street. There was blood on it. I picked it up. The end of it was bone. The bone was brittle and shattered into dust in my hands.


For the first two weeks of Rocky’s life outside my womb, my family was in a state of bliss. I was laid up from some serious tearing, so all I was able to do was to lie in bed with my new baby and stare at her, and feel her soft tiny feet on my pillowy belly skin as she nursed. Melissa, Sunny the dog, the baby and I spent most of our days like that, all together, being cared for by our friends, parents and neighbors.

At two weeks old we found out she had a congenital heart defect. A serious and complicated one, that would require surgery. Our joy and bliss was shattered. We spent the next 3 1/2 months trying to enjoy our new baby, but the dread and fear gnawed at us day and night. I would lay my head on her chest while she was sleeping, every night, and listen to her heart. She didn’t have a heartbeat. Her heart went “WHOOSH-WHOOSH-WHOOSH-WHOOSH”, very fast and thunderously loud.

The day of the surgery. It was early morning. We had a huge group of friends, family and church friends around us. When it was time, one of the church priests led everyone in a prayer. We took the long walk down that white hall, Melissa and I in front holding little Rocky, and everyone around us. We walked to the wide double doors. They opened, and after kissing and hugging her, we handed Rocky to the anesthesiologist. She started to cry over his shoulder as he walked away. The doors closed. Melissa and I collapsed into each other’s arms, sobbing. I think everyone was crying, but I couldn’t see them.

I don’t know how long the surgery took. I felt like the better part of a day. We sat in the ICU waiting room, and a stream of friends came and went with food and support. A strange calm came over me. We got periodic calls from the surgery nurse, telling us what stage the surgery was in. Every time the phone rang the room became hushed, as everyone waited for the news.

The surgeon has started the surgery. [He used a bone saw to cut through her sternum.]

Everything’s going normally. [Her heart and lungs are stopped; a bypass machine is working for them.]

The surgeon patched the hole successfully, and there was another hole we didn’t see before. He patched that too. [It was a small hole, and he had to cut it bigger in order to be able to patch it. He used Gortex.]

The surgeon shaved off muscle bundles at the pulmonary valve. [The valve will never work properly.]

She’s come off the bypass successfully. The surgeon is preparing to finish. [The surgeon has long, thin fingers. He could have been a piano player.]

She’s sewn up and coming up the hall. We’re all ushered out to the hall to wait, to see her as she’s wheeled by on her way to the ICU. We’re waiting, together. Then we hear the wheels. Then they come into view, metal rails and wheels and bags and the surgeon and nurses and one very tiny baby hidden behind bandages with tubes and lines sticking out of her. She is wheeled to a stop, briefly, in front of us so we can see her, put our hands over our mouths, see the monitors, see that she’s alive. She’s alive, somehow, completely unconscious, her heart is beating and her lungs are being worked by a machine, and she doesn’t look like my Rocky. Then she’s wheeled away.

The surgery was successful. I did have to deal with a few surprises once I was inside, but she did very well. [At first her heart couldn’t restart on its own. They had to bring it back with a pacemaker.]
The ICU room. Equipment, monitors with half a dozen foreign codes, outlets clogged with plugs attached to wires snaking around in a hundred directions. A chair to sleep in. My tiny baby girl unconscious, with a breathing tube down her throat, a feeding tube down her nose, her little hands held loosely out to her sides with velcro straps so she couldn’t move too much, not that she moved at all, those first few days. My breastmilk is vacuumed out, labeled, frozen, thawed, and then pumped into her stomach, and when my milk starts to dry up they use the excess from the first day. The noises of that room. The breathing machine, in and out, in and out, a rhythmic sucking sound. The constant beeping of alarms on the monitors. The beep-beep-beep-beep of her heart monitor. Or was that silent? Rocky’s grandmothers crocheting side by side in the gray light of the little room. Pretty nurses with jokes. Melissa. Leaning on the rail, at Rocky’s side. Just looking, and looking. Constant. Holding her tiny hands. Stroking her. My fear reflected in her eyes. Will our baby survive this? They tell us she will. It’s all normal, they say. Normal.

On the fourth day, I break down.

Then the day comes when they let her wake up. I walk into the room and she’s in Melissa’s arms. Just like that. They let me hold her and nurse her. She is covered in a white bandage down her front and I have to be careful not to disturb the tubes sticking out of her belly. My milk comes back.

Recovery. They take out the tubes, the wires, and most of the lines. We’re moved upstairs. She starts having spasms from coming off the morphine. It’s normal, they say. She starts to cry. Her face gets red with the pain. They give her Tylenol. I sleep in a bed with her. She cries for days. It’s all normal, normal.

We bring her home quietly. There’s no welcome banner across the door. We sit on the couch and hold her. She’s still and unsmiling, and she looks somehow lost.

In a few days, she’s happy again. We are tender with her body, and she is making up for lost time. I have never been more grateful for doctors, nurses and one incredibly skilled surgeon with piano hands.

Rocky has a long, white scar down the front of her chest. It slants slightly to the right, like a mast in a light breeze. Underneath the scar, below the skin, bone has healed around the metal that rejoined her broken sternum. Just south of the incision scar, there are two small dents side by side, where the tubes that drained the fluid from her heart exited her body. All over her, if you look closely, are tiny marks where lines were put in and out of her, for five days, into her veins and into her heart.

Her heart. In a miracle of survival, the tissue has grown over the patches. Gortex is now embedded within the walls of her heart. Now, when I put my head on her chest, I hear a heartbeat. Inside the heartbeat is a faint whoosh, a murmur created by the still-faulty pulmonary valve. And someday, the valve will need replacing. But if all goes well, we’ll have many years, decades, for advancing technology to reduce the procedure to a shot in the arm. In the meantime, we have a daughter to raise.

It has taken me over two years to be able to write this story.

Hippie Thanksgiving

I’m here at my father’s house in Hippie City, New Mexico, recovering from an evening of turkey-sucking gluttony. I’m recovering by eating as many pieces of pie as I can sneakily stuff in my craw. Mmm. Pies.

There were the usual T-giving day hijinks, such as miscalculating the turkey-cooking time by several hours, and the Kitchen Queen and Guest Kitchen Queen baring our fangs at each other a few times. So it was really just a nice, normal Thanksgiving. Except that it wasn’t. Because it was all hippies. Of course, I’m part hippie. And Mo, despite being not a hippie at all, could really pass for one if she wore bell bottoms and braids and flowers in her hair. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!

But really, Melissa and I share a lot in common with the hippies. The real hippies, not the unwashed, dreadlocky rich kids begging for money on the Drag. My father, for example, is a real hippie. The only reason he didn’t slide around in mud at Woodstock was because his rig broke down partway there. My father met my mother when he picked her up hitch-hiking in his 18-wheeler on the Long Island Expressway. Then they moved to my grandparents’ commune in Maine and had a small gaggle of dirty, half-naked farm children. They grew pot, had acoustic jam sessions, lived off the land and if the wheat had bugs in it they used it anyway. THAT, my friends, is real hippies.

For the record, Mo and I don’t eat weevils or forage for food along the neighborhood sidewalks. But many of our lifestyle and childrearing choices are, lets face it, hippie choices. We’re bona-fide Natural Mamas. And, I may as well come out to you now, I’m polyamorous. I know! Bitchin’, right?! And also very hippie. One night in Silly Village, Vermont, another hippie couple proposed a partner swap with Mom and Dad Ox. That was the night I was conceived. They say they didn’t do it, and I’m just going to keep choosing to believe them. But the point is, hey, the energy was there!

So yes, a little bit free-love, though not currently practicing. But we eat natural food, and let Rocky and Evander run around nudie-pooty, and we don’t work much and we don’t freak out when Rocky eats dog biscuits. And we don’t hermetically seal our apartment and we watch PBS and we all sleep in one big bed with all the pets. Well, not the fish. But only because the tank is too heavy to lift.

But don’t get the wrong idea. I’d rather wear leather pants than a hemp dress. I prefer piercing to pot. And, unlike several of my hippie-come-New Age friends, instead of claiming my 1/16th Cherokee and wearing dream-catcher earrings, these days I’m claiming my pirate ancestry and wearing a pagan symbol around my neck.

So there we were, gathered around the cooling carcass of an organically-raised Happy-Turkey, talking for hours about Hippie Things – breastfeeding, gardens, breastfeeding gardens, the benefits of dream-work – and then, during the part where Stepmother Ox stands and invokes the Great Spirit and invites everyone to share what they’re grateful for, the other hippie woman starts talking about the “Giving Spirit” of the turkey. For real. Personally, I figure that bird was probably trying as hard as it could to jam its claws into its murderer’s eyes. But I just sat quietly, chewing a leg bone, listening to the elders discuss the turkey’s “Giving Spirit”.

That was Thanksgiving. The rest of the time I’ve basically just been slugging around in my pajamas. Because this is the time of year when I work really hard (for a hippie), and I need a damn break. I’ve been lounging, eating, reading Green Eggs and Ham to Rocky over and over, exploring the surrounding mountains with Dad, eating, lounging, napping, eating . . . lounging . . . napping . . . you get the picture.

New Mexico, at least this part of it, is BEAUTIFUL. It’s all scrub desert and brown mountains dotted with weird pointy plants. You can look in any direction and it’s minimally to not at all developed. I’ve never in my life seen so many miles of unfenced, un-strip-mally land. I’ve been taking walks around the neighborhood, because I love seeing mountains and Austin doesn’t have any and from pretty much every corner here you can see rocky peaks and desert. When I’m not trudging along at 2 mph and gasping for breath (high altitude does not agree with me), I’ve been scoping out the digs. That’s “homes”, for you non-hippies. And I can now tell you with great certainty that if I were a building material, I WOULD BE ADOBE. This is really a breakthrough for me. A week ago, had somebody asked what kind of dwelling I’d be, which is a question I’m frankly amazed I’ve never been asked, I would have said pine-wood colonial, or dilapidated farmhouse, or, well, trailer. But now that I’ve seen New Mexico, everything in my world is different.

I want an adobe house! I want it I want it I want it I want it! A sweet charming cozy little white adobe box with a huge yard filled with dirt and weeds and quince trees, and an adobe wall around it that has rounded corners and all sorts of curved archways, and a turquoise-blue door. Yes. Adobe. Some day, somehow, I must make it mine.

Did I mention that my father is the strongest man on earth? Yesterday at the playground he did a high bar routine that would make your triceps quiver with envy. Yet despite his Atlas-like powers, he still needs a bossy, mountainous bull of a woman to beat him up and run his life for him. Because he’s used to it; my family has always been run by powerful, smart, overbearing matriarchs. Because, if you never learn anything else about my family, hear this: we’re hippies, hippies, fabulous, mother-lovin’ hippies.

So, if you were a dwelling, what kind would you be?

The Great Wall of Madness

So, I just want to say, having just traveled along the border with Mexico and taken a very good look, my highly professional opinion on that Great Wall they want to build is that


What a goddamn waste of tax money! Seriously, people. If the Mexicanos want in, they’re going to get in. Melissa said there are places in Big Bend where American tourists and Mexican artifact vendors just wade across the water to each other.

Oh, and I also wanted to say, it’s not just Austin cops who profile my brown-skinned wife. A while back she was in a car coming back from Mexico with her ex and lily inlaws and the border patrol stopped the car, had Melissa get out, and kept her there and asked her 50 different ways where she was from. And she had her U.S. birth certificate. Surely the rich white old people were carting a cheap new illegal lawn boy back to their estate.

We were driving along i-10, and it was all normal, and then suddenly there were border patrol cars and suv’s everywhere, and a checkpoint, and gray government buses parked on the side of the highway. To take people back into Mexico. I wonder what happens to them when they get home? Do they just get dropped off, and get to go free and come back over in the morning, a little wiser?

In other news, we’re having a nice visit so far, though we’re all three completely sleep-deprived. Rocky lost it in the middle of Mo’s filet minon (a yearly indulgence, paid for by dear ole’ Dad). The poor kid was so overtired she couldn’t even eat. She was screaming, which she rarely does, hitting me in the face, really just throwing down. Then she just plunked her head down on my shoulder and was suddenly asleep. And she’s still asleep. And now I’m going to bed too. Enjoy your turkey, or your tofurkey, or your football and beer.


On Death, Love and White Bread

It’s creepy.

We had this cat, this fabulously weird, huge, gorgeous cat I named Blackendecker. He had lived with Dogstealer, a neighbor of ours who, true to her nickname, once got beaten up for rescuing, from a private residence, a neglected, emaciated, close-to-death german shepherd puppy. Blackendecker, formerly known as Louis, duked it out with our cat Bob, won and came to live with us when Dogstealer got one too many (actually, 14 too many) cats in her house for B&D’s comfort. Blackendecker was my buddy. He had beautiful long fur, a classy tuxedo and pink pads. You could sweep the floor with him, literally; you could pick him up by his belly skin; you could sling him over your shoulder like a continental soldier. And he’d just purr the whole time. Really, he was weird. He had a thunderously loud meow, and he would start calling as soon as he spotted the car pulling into the drive. I can still picture him, plumey tail held high, walking toward the car, meowing at me. And purring.

Then he got cancer, and got all fat like he had a bowling ball in his belly, and the new vet drained it and it killed him.

I have never missed a pet the way I miss Louis Bucephelous Blackendecker.

The creepy part. There’s a new cat fighting with Bob for catfood priviledges. And she looks. Just. Like. Blackendecker. I mean, so close it makes my heart stop every time I see her. She’s smaller, a little gimpy on the back legs, but otherwise, the same freaking cat. She’s been hanging around for a few days now. Tonight, I was out late, packing the truck for our trip, and I saw the little cat watching me, hanging back behind the bushes. I stopped, knelt down and called to her, and she came right to me. Plumey tail held high. Meowing. Jesus. She pushed her head into my hand, purring, and looked at me with Blackendecker eyes. I started to cry. I petted her and she purred and I cried and cried for my old friend.

I think I’ll name her Armenhammer.

So, we’re leaving for Dad’s in New Mexico at the buttcrack of dawn, 4 a.m. I’ve been to their town once before, and I’m looking forward to going back. No exhaust. No buses. No city noise. No pollution. One funky cafe, lots of galleries, one natural food store, apple trees and gardens and friendly hippies everywhere. Just like the good old days, except without Uncle Archie’s marijuana garden in the back yard. Though I wouldn’t put it past Dad and his wife.

I may not be able to post much, but I’ll do my best to sneak away every other day or so.

As a way of warding off death by 18 wheeler, which I fret over endlessly the night before a road trip, also cancer, I’m going to make a list of things I want to do before I die. Because if I do that I’m certain to live until I’ve done them.

1. Eat marshmallow fluff and welfare peanut butter on white bread again.
2. Eat s’mores while playing Scrabble with my Scrabble Friends.
3. See northern lights again. Also a starry sky without light pollution.
4. See Rio again, this time on my own money and with better Portuguese.
5. Camp out on Thomas Point, on the Maine island I grew up on, and listen to a chorus of great horned owls.
6. Watch Rocky kick my butt at Scrabble.
7. Teach Rocky to row and Melissa to ski.
8. Hear wolves howling.
9. Have sex again. And again. And again. So I guess I’ll have to be 93 when I croak, because I really don’t want to stop having sex.
10. Come to think of it, there are a lot of things I don’t want to stop doing. So lets not get hit by an 18 wheeler. Or get cancer.


My Visit With The Evil Butch of Darkness

So after, I said to Mo, “I’m sorry, Honey, that you didn’t get to watch your football game.”

She said, “What’s football?”

But what I really want to tell you is about my job today. Yes, I worked on a Saturday, a love-date day at that. And I saw Rocky for a total of two hours all day. But back to my story.

So I was cleaning house for this woman, Jane, I used to clean for, back before I got pregnant. She’s real nice, a real Texas country lesbo. Really laid back and soft-spoken, loves her old dogs (to the point where she pretty much sleeps in a bed of fur. Eeeeeew. People in glass houses…?). Since I like her, I wasn’t minding cleaning her scuzzy, hasn’t-been-cleaned-since-her-old-partner-moved-out house. I got to love on her sweet mutts and her huge purring tabby and ogle her friendly, solidly good-looking housemate before she took off for work. Basically not minding my job today. Then Jane’s new pardner shows up. I’m in the bathroom scrubbing, what else, a toilet. I hate when people see me scrubbing their crapper, so I emerge from it and pull off my gloves just in time to be greeted by the cutest, most darling old tiny dachsund-dog. I assume this is the partner’s dog. I give her lots of pets and talk to her nose to nose, the way I do, in my little-dog voice: “Oh, you’re so cute, how’s my little buddy, hello! Hello! Oh, hello, Cute-ums! Hello, little Low Rider!” and Jane is smiling and I’m in a great mood and the dog is wagging and the vibe is just truly sweet and good and friendly there in the bathroom, and the new partner, who I haven’t yet met, starts coming up the stairs and Jane tells her, “Hey Kate, she called Annie ‘Low Rider’!” and then Kate looks in.

And the look I get burns a hole in me. A scary evil hole. She stares at me as if I’m secretly a serial ax murderer, and only she knows. Jane introduces us and I say “Nice to meet you!” and she says gruffly, “yeah”, and with one more scowl of doubt, ducks back down the stairs. Huh? Ooooh kaaaaaay.

So I go from room to room, listening to them talk, stealing glimpses of Bizarro. She’s a country butch with frizzy long hair, a forced low guy-voice and really bad posture. The fact that she’s a butch with stupid-looking hair is bad enough. I mean, if it looked good, the long-hair thing wouldn’t matter. But she looked like she had just come down from the mountains after sleeping for a hundred years. Except without the long beard. In any case, that would be bad enough, but she was mean. And I’m thinking also a bit more than slightly psycho. Which surprises me, since Jane is a very balanced-seeming psychotherapist. At one point, things have kind of quieted down a little and I figure they’re in the bedroom making out or something, but it turns out I’m wrong because I hear shouting coming from the livingroom. It’s Kate. She’s screaming. SCREAMING. At her dog. “JESUS CHRIST, ANNIE! GODDAMN FUCKING DOG! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT FOR?! JESUS CHRIST! BAD DOG! BAD DOG!” Turns out little Dachsy shat on the floor in a fit of terror, highly understandable considering she lives with Mr. Dyke-Hyde. And the woman is just out of her mind with rage and disbelief that her elderly dog could DO such a thing. And so they put the dog outside, and she keeps going on and on about it, pacing back and forth, for like ten minutes.

Jane is acting totally like normal – not even acting, really, she seems as if she didn’t even witness her partner go completely ballistic about her dog taking a harmless little dump on the linoleum. Jane, as it turns out, is in that state of New Love where you don’t see your girlfriend’s shortcomings. Even though those shortcomings include the tendency to cut out your liver and eat it with some fava beans and a nice chianti.

That’s it. Not much of a story, really. Jane and Kate went out on a walk, Jane giving me a big smile and handshake and Kate staring at me with exploding-eyes until my toenails curled up. “Bye”, I said. “Nice to meet you.” “Yeah.” Scowl. She even looked over her shoulder at me like that, one last time, before she shut the door.


But hey, I came home with a nice hundred-dollar check. And then of course I had a date with Mo, which was divine, except that the image of the Evil Butch giving me that look kept popping unbidden into my mind. I’m afraid to go to sleep, y’all. What if she can visit me, Freddie Kruger style, while I’m sleeping? What if she says “Hey Blue Ox, wanna suck face?!” and sucks out my life through my mouth? Or maybe she turns me into a pizza, and stabs my head and eats it like a little meatball? Mamma mia!

Thong or Pigskin?

I’d like to introduce my partner Mo. Here’s a conversation we had today, so you can get to know her a little better.

Me, in kitchen, chopping something: I am SO looking forward to our date on Saturday.
Mo, in office, looking at computer: Me too, Baby.
Me: So what do you want to do after we drop off Rocky? Stop by the store and pick up finger food, come home for a few hours? Then go to the performance? Or ditch the performance and stay home all night?
Mo: Sounds great, Baby.
Me: That’s not the right answer.
Mo: What’d you say?
Me: *SIGH*
[a few moments of quiet chopping and reading]
Me: What?! What?!
Mo: Oh, MAN!! There’s a GAME on Saturday!
Me: Oh. A game.
Mo: Two REALLY BIG TEAMS. Ohhhhhhh! [whining] Oh, Baby!
Me: Melissa.
Mo: Ohhhhhhhh!
Me: It’s your choice. It’s the rare occasion we have a night to ourselves. Football or sex?
Mo: Can’t we have sex while I watch football???
Me: Melissa!

I love my wife. I love her I love her I love her I love her I love her and if my neighbor looks in our window on Saturday night it’s not beefy men in buttpads he’ll be seeing.